Chapter Text
It was a long game of chess that finally decided Aziraphale’s fate. A bit cliché really, but its Death, what do you expect. They sat back in the bench of the booth and looked out of the window, hollow eye sockets crawling with little white spiders. Aziraphale tapped the edge of the table patiently, waiting to see if the Horseman would accept defeat and agree to the terms of the agreement or simply kill Aziraphale on the spot.
‘Alright,’ Death grumbled, ‘I will take you down into Hell and escort you on your quest, but I play no part in saving lives and will not assist you further.’
‘That’s all I need.’ Aziraphale said, ‘If I can get into Hell I’m sure I can come up with a way to get Crowley out again.’
That really was his plan. Get to Hell and then…do something? He didn’t know how Hell worked, how normal demons thought or how they would react to an angel in their midst.
He came armed with Crowley’s spray bottle, this time filled with actual Holy Water, and as Death brought him down through the Earth and into the depths of depravity Aziraphale felt all the goodness and love drain out of him. The air was thick and smoky and tasted like metal. There was barely any light and no one around to ask for directions. In the distance he could hear cheering, like there was a human sports event taking place, but with more swearing and growling. He walked slowly through the halls, under the flickering lamps and with Death ambling behind him.
After some hesitant exploring, Aziraphale still hadn’t found another person, but he had come to a long hallway with double doors at the end and a single door perpendicular to it. He decided to first try the single door and as he opened it he was hit by a wall of sound. Demons of all colour and creed screamed, jumped and fought along rows of dirty benches piled up like the seating arrangements in coliseums and theatres. They were all watching something through a glass window and as Aziraphale looked out he could see that they were looking down up on a circular stage where he imagined Gladiators would duel, surrounded by even more rows of screaming spectators. They didn’t seem to notice the angel and he supposed that they were too excited by whatever was going on.
He couldn’t see Crowley in their mix, but when he stepped closer to the glass to see what show they were all enjoying so much he found what he was looking for. The ground around them was dark, sodden with gallons of split blood both old and new. Beelzebub was laughing wickedly, swiping the long sithe back and forth through Crowley’s midsection as he screamed beneath a tight mask.
Aziraphale felt his angel heart break. In all his years he had never seen such savagery, such horrific cruelty. They were laughing. Laughing and cheering as Crowley writhed and shrieked agony. One of their own was being torn apart and they all cried for more. If Aziraphale had not known it to be fact he would never have believed that his dear friend was one of them. Crowley was capable of many a dastardly deed, but nothing as appalling as this.
‘I won’t help you, angel.’ Death groaned, ‘What you do now is at your own risk.’
Aziraphale swallowed hard and flinched at the ache in his throat, ‘I know,’ he whimpered.
‘You think you can make a fool out of us?’ Beelzebub cackled as they threw down the sithe. It hit the sand with a sick thump and they wiped Crowley’s blood from their face and hands.
Crowley was beyond losing himself. He could no longer see in sharp focus, only light and shapes, blinded by unending pain and the feeling of dancing on the edge of Death and being pulled back again over and over. He couldn’t remember his name, nor what his face looked like. He knew only the sounds of the crowd, the sight of his torturer’s sick grin and the feeling of being pulled inside out.
He coughed weakly, choking and gasping on the blood that rose to the back of his throat and bringing it up out of his mouth and nose. His face was slick beneath the mask, stained with his blood. Humans were good at torture, imaginative, but they learned it all from the best. Hell was the birthplace of pain, the place that humans feared to go because of the threat of unending torture. They joked about being defiled by the devil for all of eternity, but they didn’t know the meaning of the word until they arrived there. Crowley’s body was no longer his own, it was broken and abused and cut and torn. He felt hands within his blood and bones where hands should not be and could do nothing to stop it.
It was, by definition, torture, and when he felt the presence of Death arrive in the stadium he greeted it like a long-awaited friend.
‘What is he doing here?’ Beelzebub squeaked, pointing their bloodied hands at Aziraphale as the angel and Death walked across the sand towards them.
‘I’ve come for the demon Crowley,’ Aziraphale tried so hard to keep his voice strong, but the demonic eyes all around him crawled into his skin and made him feel that no shower would be hot enough to cleanse him ever again.
‘This isn’t your jurisdiction!’ Beelzebub growled, ‘Get out before I call your boss!’
‘I have no boss. I am a freelance angel and right now I am task with saving that wretched being from your cruel hands,’ Aziraphale cried, ‘He’s not yours to punish anymore and I demand you lower your arms and set him free.’
‘You and what army?’ Beelzebub grinned, ‘Face it, angel, you’re outnumbered and you haven’t got the backing of your lot anymore. You’re powerless here,’ they picked up a long blade from the table and held it over Crowley, ‘just like him,’
As the blade plunged through Crowley’s flesh white wings burst free from Aziraphale’s back and his Heavenly light glowed within his eyes, ‘I said set him free!’
Wings of a black moth sprouted from Beelzebub’s shoulders and they hissed through sharp teeth, ‘Don’t you flash those here!’
Demons in the stands brandished their own dark wings and battered at the glass partition they stood behind.
Aziraphale revealed the little green bottle and the noise died down, ‘I didn’t want to use this,’ he said, ‘but I will if you cause me any more trouble. Now release my friend at once and we will be on our way.’
Beelzebub snapped his fingers and Dagon rose from the ground beside the angel, ‘You’re finished,’ he growled and reached for the bottle.
Aziraphale squeezed the trigger and Dagon jumped back, screaming and clawing at himself as smoke and blood burst out from his chest and arms.
‘Anyone else?’ Aziraphale shouted, his voice trembling in his throat.
Beelzebub tapped their foot in rage, but there was nothing they could do. One spray of pure Holy Water could mean their complete destruction and the angel was not bluffing. Dagon escaped with his life, rubbing at his wounds as he limped for the door as fast as he could, but Beelzebub could not be certain that they would be so lucky.
They dropped the knife into the sand and stepped away from Crowley, the chains and mask falling away with a wave of their hand. Aziraphale ran to Crowley, paying no mind to the blood and gore all around them and laying his hands on his friend’s chest and shoulders.
‘Crowley!’ He cried, ‘Crowley, speak to me.’
Crowley’s yellow eyes were vacant, the pupils as thin as Aziraphale had ever seen them.
'No,' Aziraphale whimpered, 'Crowley, please don't go!'
The demon again failed to respond.
‘Death!’ The angel cried, ‘Get us out of here, please!’
Death waved a hand through the air and the angel and the demon found themselves on the floor of the book shop.
‘Oh, Crowley, my dear. What have they done to you?’ he sobbed, holding his friend’s wilted form in his lap.
His long limbs lay sprawled across the floor and his head hung over Aziraphale’s arm, his empty eyes facing the ceiling but not really looking anywhere.
Aziraphale pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped at the blood on Crowley’s face, ‘There now,’ he said, sniffing back tears, ‘lets get you looking a little more presentable, shall we?’
Crowley didn’t react. He didn’t laugh or sneer or swear. Oh, how Aziraphale longed to hear Crowley swear at him. He longed to hear him say anything at all, or do anything.
For hours he sat on the floor with his friend draped across his lap, caressing his face and rocking him back and forth. He couldn’t imagine what his friend was feeling, but he knew what he needed. Torture and pain are the destroyers of love and that was Aziraphale’s specialty. He exuded love out of every pore, singing songs of affection and touching Crowley’s cold skin with such care that it made his heart flutter.
If angels were incapable of love then Aziraphale had to be another breed entirely. Hours turned into days and still there he remained, by his friend’s side working hard to rid him of the dark cloud that gripped his bones.
The rescue had been a blur for Crowley. He knew that the pain had stopped momentarily, and that Death was near, but then he was stabbed again and suddenly there was light. Was this death? No, it wasn’t. Still he breathed and still he bled. A voice cut through the darkness and a light face appeared to him. It was familiar, but not recognisable. It spoke to him with such softness that his body rejected it and he felt violently ill. What was happening? What was causing this whiplash of wickedness and kindness?
He felt the touch of Death and thought his suffering was over, but then he felt himself somewhere else. The walls were brown and the air was dusty, not like the air in Hell, but like something a lot nicer. There was a voice of light and gentle hands that held and caressed him until he started to feel again. Until he started to feel something other than pain.
‘Where shall we go for dinner next, dear?’ Aziraphale asked as the sun set on another day, ‘I was thinking sushi, but I know how much you hate it and I think you deserve a little treat. So, what do you think about tapas? I know you don’t like to share so we won’t do that, but its nice to have some variety, don’t you think?’
Crowley lay still.
‘That’s alright,’ the angel sighed and rocked his friend gently in his arms, ‘I know you’ll come back to me when you’re ready.’
And he did come back, in time. Eventually Aziraphale could no longer stay on the floor with his friend all the time and had to open the shop and clean his clothes. He cleaned Crowley’s clothes too and made him up a little bedroom on the second floor of the book shop which he never actually used for anything other than storing more books.
When Aziraphale was busy trying to convince customers that his shop was too old and wouldn’t have anything they were interested in, Crowley blinked and sat up in the bed. The sheets were soft, but not warm. His skin was cold and sensitive. He bore no physical scars, but he could feel every blow of Beelzebub’s blade cut through him with every breath.
‘Well now,’ Aziraphale’s voice travelled up the stairs as he closed the shop door and headed up, ‘thank heaven’s they’re gone. They had their eyes on my oldest copy of Necronimon, but once I told them about Lovecraft’s feelings towards pineapple on pizza they quickly changed their min—’ Aziraphale was shocked to see Crowley awake, even though it was all he had been hoping to see for weeks now. ‘Oh,’ he breathed and walked into the room, ‘Hello,’
‘Hi,’ Crowley said.
Silence fell as they looked at one another.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Tortured.’
‘Well…’
‘And saved.’
Aziraphale smiled weakly, ‘Crowley, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I’ve been such an immeasurable fool.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and held his face in his hands, ‘I am in no way worthy of your forgiveness, I just can’t—’
‘Will you stop wittering on and get me something to drink?’ Crowley waved him off and Aziraphale scuttled off to fetch some wine.
The pair never spoke of the matter again. Crowley was forever changed by his scars, but he always had Aziraphale there to bandage and caress them until they hurt just that little bit less. Call it a labour of love, or whatever.